God's Scarlet Fury

By Robert E. Hirsch

A bishop’s vows are tested by the epic eleventh-century battle between East and West, in this compelling novel of the Crusades.
 
It is the year 1097. The violent warrior class of Western Europe is marching against the Islamic Seljuk Empire to recapture Jerusalem at the plea of Pope Urban II, igniting a searing inferno of war, betrayal, and intrigue as two worlds collide—East against West, Christians against Muslims. Caught in this vicious conflict, Bishop Tristan de Saint-Germain strives to balance religious vows, loyalty to the pope, and his life-long love for Mala the Romani, the beautiful girl he met as a child just before entering the monastery of the Black Monks in France.
 
Tested by separations, the death of their firstborn child, the threat of eternal damnation, and now annihilation, Tristan and Mala struggle against the raging tides of cultural and religious intolerance to remain together in an age of inflexible Catholic doctrine and holy war. Finding support in Queen Irene and Emperor Alexius of Byzantium, they are challenged by Archbishop Adhémar of Le Puy, rigid moralist and leader of the First Holy Crusade; Tafur, the perverse “Beggar King”; and Lord Desmond DuLac, hated specter of the Saint-Germain family past. Time alone shall direct the outcome as humanity awakens the wrathful hand of God’s scarlet fury

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Feb 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781504079181

Robert E. Hirsch

Robert E. Hirsch was born in Pusan, Korea, in 1949. In 1953, Hirsch’s mother sent him to the United States to live with his biological father due to Korea’s harsh wartime conditions. He spent the next thirteen years as a military dependent, traveling all over America and passing three years in France, where he attended school at a French lycée. Hirsch graduated from Cameron University in Lawton, Oklahoma, and began teaching French and social studies. He retired in 2012 after forty years, having served during his career as a teacher, principal, and superintendent. Hirsch has lived with his wife, Melissa, in Ocean Springs, Mississippi, along the Gulf Coast, since 1980.

Book preview

Prologue

At the very moment we are expelled from the secluded, sheltering water of woman’s womb, we are struck by … light. Caught in its startling glare, our first act is to wail in full‐throated terror, knowing somehow that we have been suddenly thrust into an inexorable dance of survival or extinction—at the hands of others. From that instant, like pulsing schools of fleeing spawn cast loose from roe sacs into the raging river, we then instinctively hide, dodge, and flee … or pursue and seize.

However, unlike the beasts and wild creatures of this earth, God has endowed humanity with the option of abandoning instinct in favor of a more complex survival equation: human intelligence. Thus it is that we have come to dominate all other species, harness the earth’s resources, build great civilizations, and cultivate over time that most wondrous of gifts: human imagination. Nonetheless, despite these advantages, and despite often misdirected claims of superior intellect, we may still in essence differ little from those primordial creatures of the far flung, forgotten savannahs. Indeed, it seems we may well still be doomed at birth … as are they … to endure life’s ceaseless chase as either predator or prey.

Such, then, has become the dilemma of human existence upon this earth as shaped and determined by man—though God did not ordain it so. Many, of course, refute this analogy, insisting that humanity has advanced far beyond the savagery and ignorance of past ages. Yet, people by the millions on this earth continue to starve, live in fear, and die at the hands of others who continue to engineer conquest and war for their own gain … beneath the guise of race, religion, or banner.

It was no different as the Year of Our Lord 1096 slipped into 1097 in the great city of Constantinople, capital and crown jewel of the Byzantine Empire as ruled by Emperor Alexius I Comnenus. Fearing an Islamic takeover by the aggressive Seljuk Turks to his east, Emperor Alexius and the Greek Orthodox Bishops of Byzantium had two years earlier pleaded for military assistance from Pope Urban II, Holy Father of all Roman Catholics in Western Europe. In response, despite the Great Schism of 1054 that forever divided Catholicism into Roman Catholics and Greek Orthodox Christians, Pope Urban II declared a ‘Holy Crusade’ against the Turks, thereby advancing his dual political intents: establishing a policy of détente after half a century of bitter feuding between the two Christian Churches by militarily assisting Byzantium, and freeing the holy city of Jerusalem from the military subjugation of Islam.

As Pope Urban finished his incendiary war plea at Clermont, France in November of 1095 to recruit the faithful knights of France for his cause, ten thousand impassioned warriors savagely beat their shields with swords and cried out in unison, "Dieu le veut! God wills it!" This cry then spread amongst the knights of Italy and Germany who responded in kind, thus giving rise to the greatest continental military mobilization in history as horde after horde of Christian men‐at‐arms from throughout Western Europe began their journey to Constantinople where their combined forces would muster as a single army and attack the Seljuk Empire. It was, more than anything, an unimaginably immense gathering of … wild bulls.

These Christian knights vowing to cast God’s fury down upon Islam comprised an elite warrior class bred and steeped in violence, conquest, and plunder. At their hands, bloodlust and savagery had ceaselessly scarred the landscape of Europe, plaguing that continent’s population, decimating the innocent along with the declared foe. To the nobles of this warrior class the value of another man’s life held less worth than the dirt it took to cover his corpse. And now these Christian knights, at Pope Urban II’s urging, were gathering to unleash their fury across the borders of Byzantium into the Muslim Empire of the infamous Seljuk Turks.

Thus began the First Holy Crusade, yet another war of unimaginable dimension, scope and consequence devised by a coven of powerful men purporting to turn bloodshed into a sacred act … in the name of God, glory, and righteousness.

Chapter One

Young Christos Laskaris

On January 21st in the Year of Our Lord 1088, a woman gave birth to an infant son in the tiny village of Despina, an isolated Greek community tucked east of Armenia, which was itself east of Sultan Kilij Arslan’s Empire of Rüm. Rüm, at this time, comprised much of that portion of Asia Minor now known as Turkey; the area had previously belonged to the Byzantine Empire until the invasions of the Seljuk Turks nearly two decades earlier.

Unable to escape westward with the Byzantine retreat, the Greeks who had migrated and settled there in earlier times found themselves trapped deep within new Seljuk principalities. In time, they quickly found themselves surrounded by hordes of incoming Seljuk Turks settling in their midst and beyond, to the west. Worse yet, they were not allowed to escape, or even travel more than short, designated distances from their villages. Regardless of what these Greeks did prior to the arrival of the Turks, whether it was commerce, trade or production, they were now tied to the land as indigent farmers. In essence, they had become hostage to a conquering culture of an opposing race and religion.

This newborn child entering life on January 21st of 1088 in the tiny village of Despina, ‘Christos’s by baptism, was the first boy born into the Greek family of Phillipos Laskaris, a former city-dweller of Manzikert now reduced to scraping a living from barren, rocky earth to feed his wife, four daughters, and aged mother. Like all sons of the poor, baby Christos entered this life bare of any legacy save the futility of his father’s battered dreams. Christos’s father, Phillipos, was also a first son, and had been named in accordance to the Greek custom of naming the first born son after his paternal grandfather.

Phillipos, however, departed from this Greek custom upon the birth of his own first son, naming his boy Christos. Throughout history many fathers have named their sons after great men rather than familial ancestors. This practice has especially been prevalent among the poor, like Phillipos; it is a mostly idle and hope‐filled gesture, though entirely futile, made by defeated men praying that their male offspring might one day cast off that crushing millstone of hopelessness that grinds the poor, over time, to dust. So it was that Phillipos Laskaris named his new son Christos in honor of Christ himself, thinking there was no greater figure in all human history. Christos, in Greek, stands for Christopher, but was close enough to ‘Christ’ that Phillipos settled on the name. Of course, in truth, even Phillipos well knew his expectant gesture concerning his son was a fool’s dream. After all, gestures of such nature committed by the destitute are feeble at best … those above them ensuring them to be so.

The Laskaris family, as other Greeks who had been trapped and allocated to Despina, was Greek Orthodox Christian. Their family roots had originated in Constantinople, but their immediate ancestors had migrated east of Armenia seeking entrepreneurial opportunities within the distant eastern stretches of the Byzantine Empire. This venture blossomed into prosperity for decades, but family fortunes severely digressed when the Seljuk Turks invaded, capturing Byzantine Emperor Romanos IV Diogenes at the bloody Battle of Manzikert on August 26 of 1071. After his capture, Emperor Romanos was led to his opponent, Sultan Alp Arslan, who placed his foot on Romanos’s head and demanded to know, "What would you do if I were brought before you as a prisoner?"

Perhaps I’d kill you, or exhibit you in the streets of Constantinople, replied Romanos.

My punishment is far heavier, decreed Alp Arslan, rubbing at his beard, slipping into a silken smile. I forgive you … and I set you free. Arslan then burdened him with many presents and demanded 1.5 million gold pieces as initial ransom, to be followed by annual installments of 360,000 gold pieces.

Returning to Byzantium in defeat, Romanos was quickly overthrown by the competing Doukas clan who deposed, blinded, and exiled him to the island of Proti, making Alp Arslan’s odd punishment come to full fruition. Arslan next opened the floodgates of Asia Minor for Turkish settlement and rule. The Laskaris family, then, had represented since that reversal of Byzantine power east of Constantinople, part of the dispossessed and stranded Christian population now living east of Armenia beneath the hammer of the Seljuk Turks and Islam. Their minority status was made even more poignant by the fact that their population was quickly waning, unlike that of the migrant Arabs, Turks, or Armenians.

The immediate overlord of these displaced Greeks in the Despina region was Sultan Abdul Azim, a tall, dark Sunni Muslim of pure Seljuk stock. A fierce warrior and firm‐handed ruler, Azim was fair and tolerant, allowing Greek Orthodox Christians within his realm to retain their culture and religious practices. As the region encompassing Despina was barren and held little value, Lord Azim also rarely interfered in the lives of the Greeks remaining there. It was a peaceful existence, then, for the Greeks of Despina—though bleak.

As with most children, Christos was scarcely aware of the abject poverty tethering his family to a life of bare subsistence, forcing them to survive on a meager diet of roots and vegetables, a rare rooster being butchered on Christmas and Easter—perhaps even a hen should nature grant a decent harvest. Having never traveled beyond Despina, Christos mistakenly thought that all people other than Lord Azim lived in such humble fashion. To his advantage, being the only son in the Laskaris household, he had been coddled from birth by all four of his older sisters as well as by his doting parents. Subsequently, Christos found much satisfaction in the simplicity of life in Despina, and as taught by his devout parents, he thanked God each Sunday at mass for his family’s sparse but adequate life.

Within the contentment of Christos’s boyish innocence there was but one dark shadow—his grandmother, Anglaia Laskaris. The ancient woman possessed a dark, brooding spirit; she seemed always to be weighing the world through sullen eyes, measuring everything before her through the lens of resentment. Moreover, she appeared lost much of the time within the realm of bitter suppositions, suspiciously dissecting the significance and intent of even the most trifling comments from others, or their interactions. Shuffling about her daily chores with the plodding steadiness of a blindered mill‐horse forging forward in slow circles, she seemed little aware of those parasitic umbrages nagging at her conscience, feeding within the dark, embittered precipices of her brain.

There were things about old Anglaia that frightened Christos’s mother, as well as all of his sisters. Even Christos’s father, Phillipos, despite the fact that she had brought him into this world, denied her all but the most sparse of communication—and never filial affection. He, apparently, was the only one who knew his mother’s ‘horrid secret,’ an act committed in earlier years that was so heinous, apparently, that he refused her the tiniest speck of forgiveness. Though Phillipos never revealed this particular secret, nor even once spoke of it, his wife and daughters somehow knew that this ‘thing,’ vaporous and unspeakable as it was, had long ago divided him and his mother, Anglaia. Nonetheless, despite this gulf, Phillipos continued to tend to his mother in old age because of deep Christian values passed on to him by his father, now twenty‐five years deceased. He, like many Greek Christian men, had been lost to the nightmare of the Battle of Manzikert.

Whatever Anglaia’s profound secret was, young Christos had decided it was robbing her of all capacity to emote even a moment’s worth of joy. Indeed, it seemed to him that for his grandmother, the past represented only bitterness, the present held little to no meaning whatsoever, and the future was but a dark corridor with no exits.

This distressed Christos, but no more so than her appearance. Anglaia’s hair had grown sparse to the point of exposing her scalp in spots; she was also nearly toothless and her face and skin were deeply creased from age and heavily mottled with liver spots. She was horribly stoop‐shouldered, too, which caused her to stand and walk inclined at an awkward forward angle. And whenever she spoke, each word was uttered in raspy, serpentine outbursts which were at times impossible to decipher.

Truly, she constituted an unwelcome and distressful presence within the Laskaris household. Even during those moments when others of the family were celebrating for one reason or another, beneath her wilting gaze, joy fled.

Oddly, the only time Christos noticed a flicker of light within her dead eyes was during the violence of … terrible storms. She would stand in the doorway gazing at their approach, lost to the angry swirl of black clouds erupting into furious thunderheads. A glimmer of life would slip into her expression then, whenever those rare but murderous rainstorms battered Despina, flinging jagged fingers of lightning to rattle the conscience while illuminating obscure skies in violent outbursts that shook the soul.

Yes, the fury of storms seems to comfort her, thought Christos. Perhaps she imagines they might yet sweep Despina from the map, washing away and cleansing her rabid hatred of the place.

As Christos possessed a gentle nature and pure heart, one of his Sunday prayers always included a private request to God that He might one day grant old Anglaia a moment of happiness. He did this faithfully despite the fact that since his birth the old hag had never once offered him the slightest gesture of affection. Still, unlike other members of the Laskaris clan, he tried his best to love her … thinking God would want that.

Chapter Two

January 21st … Alas, Despina

On Christos’s ninth birthday, he and his grandmother happened to be working the rocks halfway up a rise overlooking Despina, inspecting their snares for rats. Far above them at the very crest of the rise several men were digging for tubers and roots. Their words and laughter carried on the wind as they poked and prodded one another in fun. Still each man kept his attention to the ground, digging in earnest—except one particular fellow sitting lazily atop a boulder watching the others work. This seemed to irritate Anglaia, though Christos could not imagine why.

Look, she complained, pointing to the man as they neared another snare, it’s that lazy damned Klopas sitting on his dead ass while all the others dig! She was about to blister the man with yet more scorn, but at that very instant she happened to spy the next snare. Ho there, Christos! she rasped, poking an unsteady finger at one of the snares. "Quick, get him before he breaks from the line!"

Scrambling over rocks and diving to the ground, Christos swiftly crushed the terrified rodent with a rock as it tried to gnaw its own limb free. Got it! he shouted, tearing the rat’s mangled leg from the snare and hoisting the rat high. That makes five today, Grandma! he beamed, stuffing the rodent into his hip pouch. We’ll be feasting on meat later today for my birthday celebration, huh?

Aye, a morsel of meat tonight, the old woman muttered, issuing a grim smirk, which was as close as she was capabe of conveying satisfaction. But it was enough to please Christos, and as his eyes lingered on the rare gaze she now offered, he grinned a bit. The moment was quickly lost, though, as she seemed to hear something in the valley below. Turning, she shaded her eyes from the stark glare of the afternoon sun, straining to make out the distant spires of dust arising from the road. Horses, she muttered, as to herself. By the … hundreds.

What’d you say, Grandma? asked Christos.

The old woman offered no reply. Instead, she shuffled forward, crouching behind a waist‐high outcrop of rock so only her head craned above its jagged edges. Come, Christos, she said, a trace of urgency entering her voice. Get over here, boy … and get down.

B‐but, what’s wrong? objected Christos, straining his neck over the rocks to investigate.

"Get down, damn you! shouted Anglaia, cuffing him brusquely across the back of the head, forcing him beneath the cover of rock. It’s Mahmoud Malik and his gazis, I think, sweeping into Despina."

"Mahmoud Malik? The Butcher of Medina? asked Christos, his face dropping. But how can you know it’s him?"

By looking yonder at those black pennants streaming at the fore. I first saw them at Manzikert back in ’71. Malik barely had his beard at the time, but when his black flags swept into Manzikert, it was as if God had unleashed a demon from the crags of Hell onto us.

Christos huddled beside her, daring yet to peer over the rocks. But Grandma, I thought Lord Azim had forbidden Malik from entering his sultanate, huh?

Aye, the old woman scowled, but it looks like he’s slipped back yet again from the sultanate of Rüm to raid Lord Azim’s lands, and now the bastard’s on our very doorstep!

Below them the swarm of invading gazis broke off into three files, one following the road into Despina as the other two flanked into opposite arcs, surrounding the village to cut off escape. Sabers raised, the middle column thundered into the village, immediately falling upon unsuspecting Greeks, slaughtering most where they stood. Wailing in terror, some villagers managed to flee into shanties but were quickly pursued within and slain. Others broke for the edge of town hoping to make the rocky outcrops above the village, but their flight was cut short by five hundred horsemen circling the village from opposite angles, firing a scything rain of arrows with deadly compound bows into all adults taking flight.

Anglaia shoved Christos’s head to the ground so he could not witness the butchery. Don’t raise up, boy! she commanded, feeling the pit of her belly dissolve as the scene below began to hack and hew at her memory … carving open long sequestered, grievous wounds of twenty‐five years gone by. Moaning, she struggled mightily against the weight of those horrid past images, trying to flush them from her thoughts. Then suddenly, to her shock, her eyes caught sight of her son, Phillipos; he was herding his wife and four daughters before him in a mad scramble toward the cover of the rocky outcrops surrounding Despina. Like terrified sheep scattered by an attack of ravening wolves, they had broken into open flight, their eyes wide with horror, their broken, bleating voices exclaiming terror.

Grunting with clenched fists, Anglaia watched, her heart frantically urging them on. But within a blink, Phillipos fell, riddled by murderous fire from a dozen ranging archers blocking his path. Collapsing to his knees, he raised an arm in desperation, flagging a warning to his wife and daughters to turn back. He tried to call out, but his larynx fell hollow; both lungs had been punctured by arrows, as was his throat. Thus mortally injured, his upper torso run through from neck to navel, he convulsed—losing himself to those violent spasms induced by the dreadful velocity of winging arrows striking their mark. His eyes bulging from their sockets, his vision imploded red, and the very last thing Phillipos saw in life was his wife; she was just an arm’s length away, also on her knees. Perforated by nearly a dozen shafts, she was stretching both arms toward Phillipos—screaming his name. An instant later, both lay dead.

Leaping from their mounts, a pack of gazi archers ran forward, swiftly severing Phillipos’ and his wife’s heads, along with others of the fallen. A different faction of riders swooped onto Phillipos’ daughters who had deliberately been spared; the girls had by now huddled together in a cowed pack, wailing frantically for their parents.

Dismounting, the gazis began tearing away the girls’ clothing until all four were stripped bare. Throwing them to the ground, the gazis then flung their sabres, loosened their kur kushaks, and dropped their trousers, laughing and gabbling as would an aroused pack of hyenas. Next they began, one after another after another, mounting the young girls.

Finally, when the dozen or so men were done, they flipped the girls on their bellies—and started over again, losing themselves in bestial lust, alternately cheering each other on while jeering at their victims.

Watching this horror from the rocks, Anglaia spat, knowing that mass rape would be but the beginning of her granddaughters’ nightmares. After the Turks had sated their lust, they would be binding the girls and dragging them off with the other youngsters who were being spared for Muslim slave markets. This realization unleashed in Anglaia yet more specters of the past. She knew the fair skin of Greek children brought good prices from Arabic and Turkish noblemen of the large cities who prized them as high earners in the brothels of Damascus, Medina, Aleppo, and Baghdad—which is where the four girls would be dragged for an existence of slavery, prostitution, and misery … never to be seen or heard of again.

Though her heart was dissolving and she could scarcely hold herself up, she shed no tears. I’ve none left, she cursed, because life depleted that woeful well years back at Manzikert. Still, she continued to press Christos’s head to the ground. "Don’t raise up or they’ll see us … then they’ll chase us down and drag you off," she whispered.

"B-but what about Mama and my sisters, and father?" protested Christos, squirming to free himself.

She refused to answer … but after enduring insistent repetition of his complaints, she rattled him by the head with both hands, forcing his eyes into her own. "They’re done, Christos … each and every one! she hissed, a cold glitter filling her eyes. Forget about them, dammit, for they’re done!"

Stung, Christos froze. Wh‐what do you mean? he stammered, his mind filling with dreadful suppositions. "What do you mean, done?"

Again Anglaia refused to reply, but only bit her lip as her dark little eyes bored directly into those of Christos, leaving little doubt as what she had meant.

His grandmother had always been a severe woman, but the terrible expression now glaring at him frightened him into silence. Mistakenly, he thought her dark gaze to be anger, not understanding that it was something far more profound. It was the wild tide of unearthed memories washing through an old woman, magnified by the realization that every member of her bloodline was now dead except the young boy huddled at her side.

Nor could Christos have possibly imagined that within his grandmother’s glacial stare arose a flickering impulse to reach within her sleeve, extract the dagger she always kept concealed there, and plunge it into his heart before he could react, or even feel its cold blade. Horrific as that impulse was, Anglaia knew that the future of her four granddaughters below had taken a hellish turn, and she wished them dead rather than having to face what now stood ahead of them. She further knew that such an existence would be even more brutal on Christos should he be captured; the sexual perversities committed against light‐skinned boys by certain wealthy Muslim noblemen of sick thread were no secret amongst the Greeks.

Aghast as she reached up her sleeve, sickened by what she was about do, she felt a cold finger touch her heart as the faces of two young girls from the past flashed across her consciousness. Shuddering, she withdrew her hand and fell back while holding onto Christos, pressing his face hard against her bosom. Struggling to breathe, she began to gasp in deep, broken gulps as a sole tear finally appeared from nowhere, filling the corner of an eye. It welled there a moment, slowly streamed downward filling one of the crooked creases that furrowed her weathered cheek, then dispersed into smaller crevices.

Feeling her shuddering, Christos became startled, having never witnessed in Anglaia any out‐pouring of emotion other than bitterness. He tried to raise his eyes to look at her, but she held his head so firmly against her that he felt he would soon smother. "Are you crying, Grandma?" his muffled voice queried. Having seen nothing that occurred below, it still had not quite completely registered to Christos that his and Anglaia’s entire lives had just collapsed—nor that he would never again see the other members of his beloved family.

"No, the old woman lied, but we must leave this place, boy, and never come back."

Leave? Never come back? asked Christos, alarmed.

Aye, there’s nothing left here now … for either of us.

But what about Mother and my sisters! Christos pleaded, clinging to hope, refuting reality. And what of Father?

Did you not hear what I said a moment ago, boy?! Anglaia barked. "They’re gone, goddammit! You’ll be seeing them no more … and I don’t wish you to speak of them again for it’ll only bring hurt!"

B‐b‐but— shuddered Christos, stung speechless by these words. His face dropped then, and his boyish chest began to heave, in spasms, as tears flooded his eyes. Confused, he closed his eyes, imagining the face of each and every dear sister, along with his beloved parents. B‐but … what are we to d‐do … and where are w‐we to go, Grandma? he sobbed incoherently, drowning in grief, lost to confusion.

Anywhere but here, boy, Anglaia replied, her voice low. Somewhere far from the bloody path of Mahmoud Malik’s black flags.

But … how will we live, the two of us?

Anglaia closed her eyes a moment, wiping the remnant of the lone tear from the crags of her cheek. I’m a helpless old bitch and can barely get about, so you’ll have to step forward now, boy—because there’ll be no help from others. Pausing, her eyes turned inward, losing themselves to that private trance of calculation that Christos had so often witnessed over the years. She licked her lips then, as shortly they began to riffle in self-conversation. Finally, looking at him, she said, If we choose to live, Christos, I’ll now have to teach you to steal … for we have nothing now.

"Steal? asked Christos, disturbed. But Grandma, that’s against God’s commandments and—"

She scowled at hearing this, and shook him angrily with both hands again. "’Tis God that dropped this sudden Hell on us today, Christos! she hissed. If nothing else, then for the remainder of your years remember what fell into your lap on this, your ninth birthday. Men came, they murdered everyone we know, and now we’re left here alone and helpless. And all that though your mother and father spent half their lives on their knees in prayer, and taught you and your sisters to do the same! Now look what all that goddamned prayer has earned them! So then … now you know, Christos—prayer’s but a wasted notion for fools and those headed to the goddamned slaughterhouse!"

Christos recoiled at hearing such blasphemy, and quickly searched skyward, certain that lightning would strike his profane grandmother dead at any moment. When nothing happened, his gaze fell back onto Anglaia with objection. But, that’s not possible, Grandma, he whispered, more to reassure himself than to convince her. "God is only—good."

At this, her eyes narrowed and she directed a piercing stare his way. "Oh, you little fool! This isn’t the first time my life’s been turned on its head for no reason and for no cause. Like me, Christos, you’ll learn the truth about God in time … if you live."

Chapter Three

Klopas and the Hip Pouch

Anglaia and Christos remained in hiding halfway up the rocky outcrop, not daring to raise their heads until long after Malik’s gazis finished ravishing Despina, setting fire to it, and dragging off the children. Christos cowered there beside his grandmother, staving off tears and snuffling uncontrollably for hours as the stark realization finally struck home that, just as his grandmother had decreed, his family no longer existed … and his life in Despina had been obliterated by the gazis of Mahmoud Malik.

Anglaia chastised him from time to time as his mournful outbreaks on occasion grew too loud to suit her, but for the most part she left him to his sorrow until, finally, he fell into a fitful sleep. As he shivered and moaned there, his head pillowed across an arm, Anglaia looked down at him with foreboding disquiet. He’s already as good as dead, most probably, she suspected … and so am I.

When dusk arrived she shook his shoulder. Dark approaches, Christos, she said. We can make it to the top of the rise under cover of night, then drop over to the other side. It’ll be safer there, I think.

Wh‐what? he mumbled, half awake, momentarily confused about where he was.

Get up! Anglaia said, shaking him again. It’s time we move on. Take a final look down the hill if you wish … we won’t be coming back, ever.

But where are we going? asked Christos, coming awake.

To Byzantium where the Greeks still rule … far from Seljuks and Saracens alike. I’ve hated these goddamned Muslims since first they showed. I once had a life, but their arrival signaled its end. Oh, such a damnable scourge to my existence! But come along, I’ll need you to lead for I’m too feeble and unsteady.

Christos stood, gazing vacantly through the obscure light down at Despina which now lay in smoldering ruin and ash. He had cried himself out before falling asleep, so now in the fading light as he surveyed the charred remains of what was once his life, he felt only that numb disbelief that overcomes one in the wake of unforeseen catastrophe. Taking his grandmother by the hand, he then slowly began the ascent toward the crest of the rise, meticulously picking his way through the maze of boulders and outcrops obstructing their path. Slipping back from time to time, and stumbling forward as well, he clung tightly to old Anglaia whose breathing soon became labored. Do you need to rest, Grandma? he asked.

No, dammit … just get us to the other side, boy. Then, making certain that Christos was not watching, she pressed a palm against her side, just inches from her navel, and winced. Something was there, inside, working against her; it had arrived months earlier, unexpectedly, somewhat innocuously even, announcing itself in the form of an isolated pang one night as she struggled to find sleep. She had told no one, thinking she had merely stretched a muscle or such earlier that day while digging in the garden. But three days later the pain returned, and again several times thereafter—on no particular schedule and for no particular reason. And now here it was once more, nagging at her at the most inopportune of occasions. What in Hell? she wondered, holding her breath as to chase it away.

The crest was a good distance away, and the steep incline was heavily punctuated with troughs, boulders, and long runs of jagged rock. As night continued to deepen, Christos cautiously felt his way forward using one hand while dragging Anglaia upward with the other. After struggling for nearly two hours, he pulled her over the top and to the other side. We made it! he wheezed triumphantly, thinking his grandmother might share a word of gratitude.

She had little to say, though, as she settled to the ground. Resting her back against the face of a massive boulder, she said but, Tosss me one of your rats.

Christos had forgotten about the rats in his hip pouch, as well as about hunger. But we’ve no way to light a fire, Grandma. You’re not going to eat it raw are you?

Christos, do you wish to live, or do you choose to die? she asked curtly.

To live, he said, fishing into his pouch obediently, passing her one of the now stiff rodents.

"Even if we had fire, it’d only draw attention, Christos, Anglaia said crossly. You’d best start thinking ahead if you have any thoughts of lasting out in the middle of nowhere. And you’d best start being suspicious, too, of anyone crossing your path from here on out. Your days of dumb‐eyed innocence are behind you now, boy … taken from you by God. She then bit into the hide of the rat’s belly with her remaining front tooth, and gnashed at it, pulling and stripping away the hide. We’ll share this, which’ll leave us four more, she said, gumming a snip of flesh as best as she could. Enough maybe to get us through a few days if we’re careful. But by morning, we’ll need water."

I think there’s another village about six miles or so from here, offered Christos, and it’ll surely have a well. Though I’ve never been there, Father used to mention a little town on this other side of the rise.

Yeah … Milos, grunted Anglaia. But it’s not a Greek village, it’s Turk. Worse yet, at the moment we don’t know where Malik is, either … or who’s on his side or who’s joined his attack on Lord Azim’s sultanate. Then too, I’m so damned slow and clumsy that if I try to get into Milos, I’d just get us both caught. So if we’re to seek water there, then it’ll be up to you. Maybe you can manage to slip in alone during the late hours of night or the wee hours of morning, then slip back out without being noticed. She paused then, and took another tiny chew of rat before passing it to Christos. Getting water from Milos will be as good a time as any for you to try your hand at stealing, I suppose. Now take a bite of rat, but just a nip, Christos. No telling when we’ll come across anything else to eat, so we’d best ration what we have in your pouch, there.

In the dark, Christos rolled the rat about in his fingers with repugnance, feeling its head, legs, tail, and open belly where Anglaia had eviscerated it. Its raw flesh and fur did not feel the least bit appetizing, but he hadn’t eaten since the night before; the hunger gnawing at his belly overcame objection. Thoughtfully, he bit off the head, thinking to save the meatier portion for Anglaia. Sinking his teeth through the rat’s skull, he heard the crunch of bone against teeth; it did not offend him as much as he had imagined. But taking water isn’t exactly stealing, Grandma … is it? he asked, swallowing the fare.

Are you a Turkish resident of Milos, Christos? she asked sharply.

No.

So then, do you have a right to the well water in Milos, Christos?

No, Grandma … but—

"Then if you take it, you’ll be stealing, Christos, interrupted Anglaia. But of course, if you’d prefer to die an honest death rather than steal to live, then we’ll just forget about the damned water. Besides, maybe God wants us to die, like your mother and father, heh? It was a cruel remark and cut with the precision of a razor, leaving Christos speechless. On the other hand, she continued, hearing no reply, perhaps He wants you to live, in which case He’ll then wish you to steal. See there, He’s now forced stealing on you … because it’s against his will that man willingly kills himself. Am I right?"

Christos said nothing.

Pass the rat back here—don’t eat the whole damned thing.

Christos handed it to her in silence. Reflecting on her line of reasoning, he finally said, Grandma, what about you? Don’t you wish to live?

I don’t care one way or the other, she snarked. I died a long while back though no one wished to concede the point, especially your father. I’d just as soon be free of this wretched earth this very moment, for it’s been nothing but a damned trial of endurance and survival since Manzikert. Yeah, I’ve been ready for the big sleep for many years now … but God’s kept it from me. She reached in her sleeve then, and held her knife to the sparse light of the moon. You know about this knife I carry at all times, eh, Christos?

Christos considered the blade’s dull glint in the moonlight. Though the Laskaris clan never talked about it openly, everyone knew she carried it; only Phillipos knew why. Yes, confessed Christos, I know about it, Grandma.

Very well then, know this: I’d simply slit my own throat and be done with this shit I’m in now, this very moment—if not for you.

"If not for me?" asked Christos, confused.

"Yes. Helpless as I am and little that I have to live for, you’re even more helpless. There’s no hope for a nine‐year‐old wandering about alone in this wicked world, especially in times like this. You’d be like a newborn sparrow thrown to a huddle of hungry crows, dammit. Though I’m of little use in many things, at least I’m wily enough to get you through longer than you could ever last on your own. Gullible and simple‐minded as you are, you wouldn’t last a week alone, so yeah … I’m thinking to give you half a chance at least by lingering about to help you get by for as long as I can. Then, waggling the knife at him, she added, But should you tire of living along the way … just let me know, heh?"

Christos went silent, scrabbling to decipher what Anglaia meant by this. Anglaia also grew quiet, until the sound of rock sliding down the slope startled them both. Struggling to her feet, she held the dagger behind her back. Who’s there?! she hissed.

No reply came at first, only the sound of footfalls edging toward them. Finally a voice followed. "It’s me, Klopas, a voice said. Is that you, Anglaia?"

Yeah, come on, Anglaia replied, recognizing the man’s voice. She had known Klopas for years, distrusting him from the very moment they had met. He was a thief according to some in the village, though it had never been proven. But Anglaia’s dislike for him went deeper; she had never liked the way Klopas gawked at her daughter‐in‐law, and even less the way he ogled her young granddaughters. Despite his gregarious front, Anglaia knew him to be a worm.

"Ah, thought I saw you and your grandson down in the crease just below where me and the others were working this afternoon before the attack, said Klopas, his face carrying a ghostly pallor in the light of the moon. I been at the summit since early morning digging roots."

Yeah, I saw you there, said Anglaia, surreptitiously slipping her dagger back up her sleeve, noticing that Klopas’ eyes carried that keen look of one glimpsing about—as just before committing thievery. Ah, but that bastard’s up to something, she thought. It looked to me you were doing nothing but sitting on your dead ass, Klopas, she sniffed, masking her suspicions. And tell, so what happened to the others?

Shit, they scattered like mice, same as I did! Hiding here and there among the rocks, I suppose, who the hell knows? All of us lit out the instant we recognized the black flags. That goddamned Malik! We remember Manzikert when he showed up waving those black banners. Christ, even the other Turks hate his ass.

He’s not Turk, you lout, countered Anglaia, finding satisfaction in contradicting Klopas’ point. He’s a Persian mercenary, damn his soul, and when he’s not fighting for Kilij Arslan in Rüm, he’s raiding other sultanates, as he’s doing now. As she said this, she telegraphed a look of pure condescension—to ensure that Klopas felt her loathing.

Shrugging with irritation, Klopas returned a blank stare, wondering exactly why it was that the old woman had always refused to treat him with a speck of civility. Of course, as with all people of low character saddling themselves with self‐induced flaws, Klopas failed to recognize his own many shortcomings. What the shit difference does it make, Turk or Persian? he retorted. Point is, Malik’s back to his old butchery again! Pausing, he shook his head, intent on repaying Anglaia’s sharp tongue with some barb of his own. That is when he happened to remember, from his position atop the rise during the attack, spotting the ill‐fated flight of Phillipos and his family from the charging gazis. Thinking to deliver a sharp wound as repayment for Anglaia’s bitchy tongue, he thought to bring it up. Shit, Anglaia, he began, did you see those gazi archers today? And after killing our fellow Greeks, they began taking their heads! And I swear, I thought I saw your son down—

Anglaia’s eyes fired darts at Klopas as she stuck a finger toward Christos. "Shut your damned mouth! she snapped. The boy doesn’t need to hear such things, damn you!"

Oh, pardon … I forgot about the boy, Klopas shrugged, feigning apology. Still, he could not help but smirk the tiniest bit. He yawned then, poking at his belly. Say, you and the lad there got anything to eat, by chance?

Christos was about to answer and offer a rat, but Anglaia interceded. No, she said.

Oh, but I thought you two were snaring rats down below us today. No luck, huh?

No, lied Anglaia.

A shame, replied Klopas, eyeing the leather pouch hanging about Christos’s waist. I’m hungry as hell … you, too, probably, eh? Aw well, maybe we’ll chance across something down the road tomorrow. Seeing that Anglaia remained tight‐lipped, her scowl still glued in place, he raised his shoulders in a questioning gesture. Yeah, so tell, Anglaia … where the hell are you two headed now that Despina’s gone?

Anglaia remained motionless, leaving Klopas standing there to endure an uncomfortable silence. Seeing that even this did not encourage him to leave, she finally pointed toward Milos and said, West, I suppose, if that’s any of your damned affair … maybe all the way to Bithynia, or even Constantinople if we can make it across the Bosphorus. Otherwise, I suppose we’re headed to our goddamned graves!

Klopas chortled at this; he had never liked Anglaia, but from time to time he found the old bitch’s bluntness entertaining, such as now. Jesus Christ, that’s 600 miles to the west! Klopas sniggered. Old as you are, you think to make it that far on foot? With a boy in tow? Ambitious plan, I’d say. But you’d best watch your cranky old ass, Anglaia, especially with all that other shit stirring that direction.

"Eh? What the hell’s that supposed to mean? asked Anglaia. What other shit?"

He shook his head up and down a moment, as congratulating himself on a past cleverness. Oh, he replied, just that I managed to slip beyond Lord Azim’s border and snuck halfway to Edessa a few months back.

Halfway to Edessa? muttered Anglaia. That’s a far damned distance away, you got … if you’re not lying, that is. But what of it?

Well … interestingly, I happened across a caravan out of Nicaea. One of the men in the train was a Byzantine merchant from Constantinople.

Christ, quit dragging your story out, Klopas! So?

Pleased at raising the old woman’s ire, Klopas continued, but slowly so. Well … learning that I, too, was Greek … this fellow mentioned that Constantinople’s been bursting with thousands and thousands of western Europeans this past year.

Huh?

Yeah … the first group to arrive was an army of peasants that walked all the way from France and Germany. On their arrival, they sailed across the Bosphorus, apparently, and tried to invade Kilij Arslan’s capital of Nicaea. Word is, they were slaughtered by Mahmoud Malik and some other general under Kilij Arslan’s command … General Soliman … I think.

"An army of peasants? Anglaia huffed. Ridiculous, Klopas. There’s no damned such creation. Chrissakes … and you say they walked all the way from France and Germany? To attack Kilij Arslan, Sultan of Rüm? Hup, that’s about the most jack‐assed thing I’ve ever heard you say, and I’ve heard plenty of horse shit come out of that sloppy mouth of yours, Klopas! And you mean to tell that you swallowed such tripe?"

Ignoring the affront, Klopas nodded. Granted, it sounded a bit far‐fetched, but there’s more. This same merchant claimed that a second wave of westerners has since shown up, with more yet expected to arrive. And they’re moving east … our way.

More to come? Peasants, you mean?

No, this second bunch is all knights and footmen, arrived by the tens of thousands from all over Western Europe.

Dismissing ridicule in favor of curiosity, Anglaia looked closely at Klopas. To what purpose? she muttered.

War, I’d guess. Why else would men‐of‐arms show up in such droves? The merchant mentioned something about a recent alliance between the Pope of Rome and the Byzantine Empire. I don’t know, it didn’t make a lot of sense … sounded like the Roman Catholics and Greek Orthodox Christians are joining forces … to make war against the Muslims, maybe. Ha, wouldn’t that be the hallelujah shits?! It could mean us finally getting out from under the Turks. Imagine that.

Christ, wheezed Anglaia, "there’s already a damned war, Klopas, in case you hadn’t noticed today—and we’re right in the middle of it. The last goddamned thing we need is war on top of war."

Maybe so, but a Christian war against the Turks is a war I could welcome. Aye, I’d give anything to see the Turks run back to Asia, or wherever the Hell they came from. But Christ, I don’t know … maybe the guy I was talking to was just spewing caravan talk. You know, campfire bullshit. But who knows, eh? Could be true.

As they spoke, Christos listened, his imagination running rampant. He had heard talk in the village while growing up of the Byzantines perhaps one day reclaiming territories lost to the Turks, like Manzikert, or even Despina. Oh, what a happy day that would be, he thought, though he held no particular ill feelings against Despina’s Sunni overlord, Lord Abdul Azim. Nonetheless, Christos had been raised to believe that all Muslims were heathens, and now this recent horror committed by Mahmoud Malik to Despina and his family seemed proof of it.

Aye, Klopas, Anglaia snorted, derision slipping back onto her tongue, "that’s campfire bullshit all right. Since the Schism of ’54, we Greeks have long split from Rome. Hell, Emperor Alexius even made alliances against the Catholic Pope, Gregory, during the Vatican’s war against the Germans. I’d say that fellow you spoke to is full of shit. Yeah, and you, too, if you believe any of that piss he’s passing around!"

"Hell, I never said I believed it!" snapped Klopas.

Ha, and I suppose the both of you were drinking, too, during that exchange of bullshit, eh? As she talked, she continued to keep a close eye to Klopas; in the obscure light it seemed to her that he had been eyeing Christos’s hip pouch too closely. Then, as Klopas happened to turn a bit, she thought to detect a goatskin bota tucked under Klopas’ arm. Say now, she said, softening her tone, you wouldn’t happen to have anything to drink, might you?

No, Klopas lied, shoving his bota behind his back, convinced that Anglaia was a damned liar, and that Christos’s hip pouch was full of plump rats.

A shame, replied Anglaia, working all day at the top of the rise like you fellows were, I’d think you’d have at least have brought wine, water, or such.

Yeah, well … the others were holding onto the botas, but they’re long gone now.

Klopas then went silent, shuffling about on his feet—which led Anglaia to believe he was about to leave. She was mistaken. Taking on a tone of veiled amity, he said, You know, Anglaia … doesn’t make a whole lotta sense for any of us to go any further tonight, dark as it is. Yeah, that’d just invite injury, I’d suppose. How about we just sit tight, stay right here for the night, huh?

Together? The three of us? blenched Anglaia.

Sure, why not? That way I could … you know, maybe help keep an eye to you and the boy. Huh?

Smelling fish, Anglaia’s face contracted into a scowl. Nevertheless, and despite her immediate inclination to disagree, Anglaia shrugged, nodding yes; she was in no position to actually force Klopas to leave. That’ll be fine, she grunted, suspecting his proposal out of place, coming from a man in hiding; it would only be to Klopas’ disadvantage to be tied to an old woman and a boy … even at night.

Several more minutes of disingenuous conversation ensued before Anglaia and Klopas finally settled among the rocks as best as they could to find sleep. Drawing her grandson close to her, Anglaia whispered, We’ll sort things out in the morning, Christos. We’ve a long trek ahead of us, so get some sleep.

Though Christos had briefly found sleep earlier, it had been a restive sleep. Then too, he was bled dry from the day’s tragedy, as well as from hauling his grandmother up the rise. Within minutes of nestling next to Anglaia, something he had never once in life done before, he felt himself spiraling toward blackness. Moments later he found himself in the midst of his four sisters, laughing and teasing as they playfully goaded each other into riding Eros, the village’s cantankerous billy‐goat that was shared by all the families of Despina for breeding purposes. It was a pleasant dream, and a deep sleep.

Christos awoke at dawn with a start, startled—eyes blinking with confusion. Not moving, still caught in the fog of half‐sleep, he imagined for a moment that he heard a groan, accompanied by a flicker of motion off to his side. Unable to come fully awake though, he closed his eyes again, drifting back toward sleep. It was but part of a dream, he thought, fading.

A few moments later, however, he heard something else. It was Anglaia’s terse voice, most likely directed at Klopas. Lifting his head, Christos rubbed at his eyes. But then, catching his focus, he gasped, drawing back. There was his grandmother, standing just feet away, swearing in sporadic outbursts … stooped over Klopas who lay sprawled on his belly—his dead eyes staring blankly at the ground, his lips mottled with earth, his woolen shirt soaked with blood emanating from the nape of his neck. Anglaia was struggling a bit, working at freeing Klopas’ bota from his shoulder. Stunned, Christos jumped to his feet, eyes wide with shock.

No need to fret, Christos, said Anglaia with a calm so frigid that it made Christos tremble. "Klopas is done. He pretended to be asleep, just as I did … but then made a mistake. He came after our rats."

Chapter Four

Constantinople

As the Roman Empire’s dominion in Western Europe began to dissolve from the Fifth Century forward, the eastern portion of the empire known as Byzantium remained intact. The Byzantines, therefore, became the sole inheritors of Rome’s past glory, power, and culture, though in reality and over time they had become more Greek than Latin.

Constantinople, capital of the empire, was strategically situated atop an isthmus jutting into the Bosphorus Straight, connecting the Black Sea and the Mediterranean. Thus straddling Europe and Asia, it handily exploited the pulsing trade route between Occident and Orient. Moreover, Constantinople had by now also developed into the greatest Christian city in all the world, actually dwarfing the western European capitals of Paris, London, and Rome in both size and wealth.

In the Seventh Century, the Muslims of Arabia, known as Saracens, launched invasions resulting in Byzantium’s loss of its most eastern territories. This centuries old struggle later centered on control of Asia Minor, most of which was also lost by the Byzantines. By this time, however, the Muslims in question were no longer the Saracens of Arabia, but the Seljuk Turks originating from the Hsiung‐nu tribes on the northern edge of the Gobi Desert and the Altai Mountains. As these Turks moved west off the steppes of Central Asia in the Tenth Century, they embraced Islam and established themselves around Bukhara in Transoxania